


Eviction

by Hamlet D Tusk (mikawritesthings)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, Both literally and figuratively, Crack, Hate Sex, Nonbinary Distortion, Nonbinary Michael (The Magnus Archives), Other, Self-Love, Smut, a thinly-veiled exploration of the author's gender, but like honestly kinda sweet about it, gender feels, healthy enemies with benefits, my first attempt at writing a spiral fic, or rather crack smut that turned into something kinda legit, the distortion is trans and there's nothing you can do about it, trans feels, weird poetic metaphors for sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikawritesthings/pseuds/Hamlet%20D%20Tusk
Summary: Helen kicks Michael out of the Distortion. Or rather, she tries to.
Relationships: Helen | The Distortion/Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Eviction

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone. This was a fun little experiment written in one shot, but it got really out of hand and I think you can tell. Also, Michael is simultaneously nonbinary, a trans man, and an egg. Because I said so <3

Once again, the Distortion has successfully torn someone’s _what_ out of their _who_ and worn the remains like a tasteful tailored pantsuit.

Those aren’t just pretty words, mind you. A tasteful tailored pantsuit seems to be exactly the kind of outfit that a certain real estate agent gravitated toward when she was still Helen Richardson. Said real estate agent preferred more dusty pastel pinks, though, which is far too drab for the Distortion’s liking. Even as Helen pushes that horrid little blonde boy out of _her_ hallways, locking the door behind as his screams echo around every twisted corner, the fabric of both her outfit and her being begins to skew much more… _saturated._ The real estate agent would have turned up her nose at this shade of magenta, but it suits the Distortion just fine.

Helen does click her tongue in disapproval at the current state of the hallways, though. Those mirrors (paintings?) on the walls simply won’t do. And that shag carpet is just _begging_ for her high heels (delightful little pink kitten heels worthy of a Barbie doll) to get caught in. That’s a no-no. When, after all, was the last time you saw a villain trip?

“The seventies are out, darling,” Helen finds herself(? what is a self?) saying. She takes the opportunity to examine her new face in a nearby mirror. To adjust her already-perfect lipstick, maybe try on some earrings. “It’s like he’s never even _heard_ of a thirty-year cycle.” 

She can’t seem to decide; should she go with the dangly yellow ~~fringe~~ door earrings? Or maybe the little rhinestone ~~hoop~~ spiral pieces? The yellow of those doors doesn’t entirely match the rest of her outfit, but those spirals are a touch _too_ understated for the Distortion’s liking. Maybe if these little doors were a bit more _pink…_

Yes, that’s better. Now they shimmer simultaneously pink and yellow, in a thoroughly nauseating way that skips the orange part of the spectrum altogether. The Distortion Helen fits them to her ears, then admires her reflection. It almost looks like a person in there.

Helen stops when a voice comes from behind/around/inside her.

“ _I_ wouldn’t even **bother** matching _colors_ if **I** were _you_.”

Her lip curls when she recognizes her own/ his own/ its own voice. Of course _he_ would pull this kind of dirty little trick. He’s her, or _was_ her, after all. Cute little deceptions are what he is/ he was/ she is/ she was all about. 

“I thought I locked you out,” Helen says, directing her gaze toward the crooked figure down the hall. What crooked figure? No one’s there.

“ _Don’t_ be **silly,** _Ms._ **Richardson** ,” says ~~the former Distortion~~ Michael, from somewhere behind Helen’s left shoulder. “I’ve _got_ no **reason** _to_ be **you.** Why should _I_ let _you_ **lock** me **_out_ ** **of** _my_ own hallway?”

Helen turns. ~~and turns and turns and~~ Once again, no one is there.

“The Distortion isn’t you anymore,” Helen says. “It discarded your face in favor of mine. I thought symbolically locking you out would be enough to prove that.”

“ _You’ll_ **have** to try _much_ **_harder_ ** than **that** to get _rid_ of me.” Michael laughs his crooked little laugh, causing the architecture around them to twist and curl at the edges. It untwists when Helen gives it a stern look, though it retains a hideous pattern that almost looks like novelty wallpaper. Hmm… that shade of ~~ultraviolet~~ yellow _is_ quite chic, though.

“What’ll it take?” Helen asks. “Must I give you an eviction notice? Read you a bedtime story before I kill you? I won’t tolerate squatters.”

“ _How_ can _I_ **squat** in my own _house?_ ” That capricious note of amusement refuses to leave Michael’s ~~“voice”~~ voice. “If you _really_ **want** me _out_ ** _of_** **here,** you’ll have to **_fight_** me for it.”

No sooner does that statement register in the spirals of Helen’s ears than an elongated finger-blade comes racing around the corner. ~~Miles~~ Inches before it can connect with her face, Helen traps it between two of her own fingers. She feels contempt rise within her as the remainder of Michael follows.

He/ she/ they/ it comes more fully into view. A tall, gangly thing whose twists and fractals both the Distortion and the real estate agent are all too familiar with. That shoulder-length blonde hair, that God-awful ~~orange~~ yellow button-down, and that smug little Cheshire grin. ~~He~~ She _hates_ ~~herself~~ him, she realizes, for having been _him_ before she was _her._

“ _Now_ you finally show yourself,” Helen says. Unable to resist the urge, she adds, “Good boy.”

Michael sighs. There’s an element of what one might call “wistfulness” in his voice, layered on top of a thousand little contradictory lies. Maybe even some half-truths, if Helen listens hard enough. “I was _never_ **that** ** _good_** at being _a_ ** _boy,_** was I? _You’re_ **proof** ** _enough_** of _that._ ” The Distortion thinks of how strange and fractured its/ his identity was/ is as Michael. “But _Michael_ was even _worse_ at being **_a_** **girl.** ”

Helen sniffs. “I think I do the job a touch better than you do. Face it. You’ve been _replaced_ , darling.”

There’s that crooked little laugh again. “You _don’t_ **do** the _job_ **_better_ ** , Helen **Richardson.** You just do it _differently._ I’m the **throat** of _delusion_ incarnate, but what are _you?_ A _mouthpiece_ for a little **_gaslight?_ **”

“I don’t appreciate the condescension,” says Helen. “If anyone here is ‘little’, it’s you.” She takes a step backward, her heels clack-clacking against tasteful wooden floorboards. Helen lets her fingers intertwine with Michael’s, two twisted imitations of people holding twisted imitations of hands.

“I don’t _appreciate_ the _condescension_ **either,** ” says Michael. “ _Just_ because my **methods** skew a little _more_ **camp** doesn’t _mean_ they **don’t** _work._ ” He takes a step back in turn; his canvas sneakers produce only the soft pad-pad of flat sole against plush carpet. It’s almost like the two are dancing a little waltz, as they continue with their back-and-forth. The hallway widens around them, raises its ceiling high and its floorspace expansive until it’s the scale of a ballroom.

They _are_ / it _is_ dancing now. Walls and doors and mirrors and floors sway and turn with them/ it. They’ve even gone so far as to change outfits; Helen has opted for an elegant little knee-length fuschia number with a tastefully scooped neckline, while Michael wears a wide-collared yellow shirt (no tie) tucked into high-waisted gold lamé pants, with a daring magenta waistcoat to top it off.

Helen clicks her tongue again when she sees that outfit, as she spins Michael in place. “Didn’t I just tell you the seventies were out?”

Michael fake-pouts as he returns to facing ~~himself~~ Helen. “I’m _starting_ to _get the_ **feeling** you don’t ** _like_** _me_.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“ _I_ **_know_** _._ ”

The Distortion/ Helen/ Michael begins to dance in the way only it/ she/ he/ they can. Hands and limbs and hallways and bodies and space and time wind and cross and bend and twist around and about and back and forth and inside and outside ~~themselves~~ each other. Sometimes they resemble something visible, comprehensible to the human ~~Eye~~ eye. Most of the time, though, they are a confused mess of _what_ and _who_ and _where_ ~~and sometimes _why_~~ , impossible to tell where Helen begins and Michael ends. They dance to music that hums with falsehood, with distorted notes and a tempo that no sane mind can follow.

_How would a melody dance to itself?_

_Like this._

The spirals untwist eventually, though, and the music hits its final note just in time for Michael to dip Helen low. They stare into each other(‘s eyes) for a single beat, until, finally ~~his~~ her lips connect with ~~hers~~ his.

Time doesn’t flow right in the Distortion, yet somehow the kiss still ends too soon.

A sad little blonde human is almost Michael again when the concentric circles in his eyes dilate with surprise. “I didn’t _think_ you liked _men,_ ” he says in a voice that’s a little more _normal_ than Helen is accustomed to.

“I,” Helen says, “didn’t think you counted as a man.”

Michael’s typical bastardous Cheshire grin returns to his face. “Of _course_ I’m **not** a _man,_ ” he says. “I’m **_Michael._ **”

The following laugh that emanates from the throat of delusion incarnate is quickly strangled, ending with a pathetic yelp, once Helen pins it beneath her heel. 

Fibers of shag carpet squirm underfoot as Michael does. He cannot lie, cannot taunt her, only emit distorted whimpers. He does not know whether to struggle. He could escape now, if he wanted; sink into a different expanse of hallway and send Helen on a wild goose chase after him. But he does not _know,_ and that’s the worst/ best part. Doubt is ~~his~~ Helen’s domain, and it’s confronted him in a way he cannot ignore.

A thousand yellow doors thrum on their hinges with strange arousal as Helen digs her heel a little further. Floorboards nail themselves down into carpeting that begs for more, mirrors retreat into walls with confusion/ thrill/ fear/ lust, and walls throb with anticipation. 

Helen bends at the waist with pitch-perfect dominatrix form to look Michael in the eye. “Are you going to behave now?”

Letting him up for air is a mistake.

He grins once again. “ _You’ll_ have to **make** me.”

She grabs him by the collar, yanks him towards her into a position that might be vertical and might be horizontal. They kiss again, and again, and again, their hands and arms and legs tangling in even tighter fractals than they did before. The hallways follow suit, spiraling into one another in endless impossible non-Euclidean shapes. There is a bedroom somewhere-- or it might be a particularly misshapen bit of hallway-- but its “purpose” is irrelevant to an eldritch Distortion whose faces are ~~dancing~~ wrestling for dominance.

The anatomy of the pair is the least comprehensible part by far; not even they can keep track of who is penetrating who, or whose dagger-like fingers are trying to pierce the blindingly bright fractals of whose flesh. Mouths are rooms and throats are tunnels and sex organs are multicolored black holes competing to see who can swallow who into their being, who can twist themself into the other until both cry out with a melody that describes/ cannot describe itself.

But Helen is the face that wins in the end.

She separates from him, withdraws from behind his doorway, sees the blonde ringlets framing his Cheshire grin once again as he kisses her ~~hello congratulations thank you~~ goodbye.

Michael’s hallways retreat somewhere else. The Distortion has received a lovely retro-chic redecoration, complete with one-of-a kind yellow wallpaper and understated wooden flooring.

Helen stands up, adjusts her collar, and shakes her head a bit to regain her bearings.

She then walks to the second door on the right, and turns the doorknob. No time to waste; she’s got a few people she’s been dying to show her new face to.


End file.
